


The Consolation Of A Brother's Love

by LadyGlinda



Series: Pandemic Drabbles [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, POV Mycroft Holmes, Pandemics, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sherlock is a Mess, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23698645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock mourns the death of his best friend John Watson. Molly Hooper has died from the new virus, too. Mycroft decides to take his brother home. And in the end, there is a consolation of a kind he had not anticipated.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Series: Pandemic Drabbles [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685062
Comments: 56
Kudos: 69





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [barbiedoll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbiedoll/gifts), [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts).



Mycroft is keeping his distance. Is watching his brother from behind, ready to step in if necessary. He had feared he would have to hold his umbrella over him but it has conveniently stopped raining.

Sherlock is holding himself very straight. Probably he doesn’t hear a word the priest is saying. Memories will be flickering through his mind. Of all the exciting times he shared with the man who is now lowered into his grave.

John’s parents are sobbing loudly. So is the sister, holding the little girl in her arms. Why have they brought her? This isn’t a place for a child.

When it’s over, they all leave. Everybody except for Sherlock. Inspector Lestrade pats his shoulder and mumbles a few words to him before he nods at Mycroft and stalks away. Sherlock makes no attempt at following him. He keeps staring at the spot he has seen his best friend disappear in.

Mycroft bites his lip. Then he joins his brother. “Come, Sherlock. It’s time to go.” The rain has set in again but he pays no heed to it.

Sherlock turns to him. Is it rain on his face? Or has he really been crying silently? His eyes could be reddened from the harsh wind. Mycroft has not seen him for a week. Since then, he has lost at least four pounds. His Belstaff is hanging somewhat loose around his bony frame. His cheekbones look like blades in his ghostly-pale face. His full lips have been pressed into a thin line of grief. His eyes are light green and show hardly any liveliness. “Go?” He huffs out a shallow laugh. “Yeah. Home. Where nobody is.” He sounds… defeated.

Mrs Hudson is in hospital care. Her prognosis is, surprisingly, good. She will in all probability survive what Sherlock's two way younger friends did not. A tough woman for sure. When she is able to leave the hospital, which might take weeks, she will not return to Baker Street, either, not for a long while. There is a sister in Sussex who will take care of her.

“No,” Mycroft says. “Not Baker Street. My house.”

Sherlock stares at him. “What? Why?”

It hurts. But it is not an unexpected reaction in the least. “Because I don’t want you to be alone now.”

“But I will be. You’re at work all day.” Sherlock winces after the second sentence as if he was afraid he had sounded like a needy child.

Mycroft shakes his head. “I’ve been mostly working from home for a month now, Sherlock.” His work is mostly scanning reports and supervising operations that are not happening right now. If there is an inevitable meeting, it is done via video call. Very rarely he does go to Whitehall and rummages through some files. Perhaps mainly to see if everything is still there…

“You think I’d take drugs if you left me to myself.” Sherlock sounds resigned.

Of course Mycroft has feared that. He doesn’t deny it. But he says, “There are times when people should not be on themselves.” What consolation does he have to offer Sherlock? Well. A lot, actually. But Sherlock won’t let him. The age-old story of their brotherly relationship.

To his surprise, Sherlock doesn’t protest. “I’ll need some stuff though.”

Mycroft nods. “Anthea is taking care of it.”

“Of course she is.” At least there is a hint of mockery in Sherlock's otherwise flat tone.

“Whatever else you need, you will be provided with it,” Mycroft says rather stiffly.

Sherlock shrugs. “Thanks.”

“Perhaps… you’d prefer going to our parents?” Mycroft suggests, giving him a way out.

But Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Is it the time for jokes?”

“I didn’t…” Mycroft shakes his head. “Let’s go.” His car is waiting for them. He reaches out to touch Sherlock's back but refrains from doing so in the last moment, knowing it to be unwelcome.

Sherlock lowers his head, walking beside him like a lost little boy. He does not speak a word when they have climbed into the car and driven off, his face turned to the window, but Mycroft is sure that he does not actually see anything.

He has no idea how to deal with a Sherlock who is grieving. This is something else than losing his childhood friend. Sherlock will not forget about John Watson. He is not that boy anymore who has turned the boy into a dog so many years ago. He is a man who has gone through hell and back over the past few years. A man whose life has never been easy to begin with. But he has never had to cope with such a loss.

Against Mycroft's advice, he has become involved in people’s lives. The Watsons, mainly. So much pain because of Mrs Watson, leading to a long estrangement with the doctor. But they had reconciled. John had been living with him again, with his daughter this time. And now he is gone forever. It has proven once more that caring is indeed a huge disadvantage...

Once not so long ago he told Sherlock that he would always be there for him. Sherlock’s reaction had been rather contemptuous, perhaps even disbelieving. But now Mycroft can prove how serious he was. He is kind of scared. But he will not let his brother down. Never. Because for him, Mycroft Holmes does care deeply.

*****

Mycroft puts his phone away with a sigh.

“The PM,” Sherlock concludes, sounding contemptuous.

Mycroft knows why. Not because of the man’s general stupidity. Not even mostly because the man’s party had let the NHS bleed out for years. But because he had done so many mistakes in dealing with the virus, played it down and hadn’t taken it seriously. And then he got it and survived while people like John Watson and Molly Hooper succumbed to it, both helping out at their respective clinics, taking care of the deadly ill patients without proper protection. Was it bravery? Stupidity? The wrong conviction that they were reasonably young and therefore safe? Or even a hidden wish to die? Mycroft will never raise this subject with Sherlock but he is rather sure his brother has pondered about this, too.

His relationship with the Hooper woman had suffered a deep scratch thanks to Eurus’ game with her. She had been unhappily in love with him for years and this episode can’t have made her any happier. Mycroft doubts that Sherlock had ever gone to Bart’s again to ask for body parts for his experiments. If he had even cared about them anymore. Sherlock had changed after this day in the prison. Trying to be a good brother for Eurus. What sounds like a joke had been rather important to Sherlock, the middle child. Of course his efforts hadn’t led anywhere so eventually, he had given up seeing their sister. Mycroft had not seen a lot of him back then, but whenever they had met, he had seen that Sherlock looked glum and more introverted than ever. Somehow he still managed to reconcile with John. And then the virus stroke, killing Molly within two weeks and John within three. The lonely woman and the widower who had still been mourning his life...

Sherlock has been spared, though. He has been tested and he doesn’t have it. A man who had played vabanque with his health for basically decades has an immune system strong enough to not catch this potentially deadly illness. And Mycroft is beyond grateful that little brother is healthy. Depressed and suffering, yes, but healthy. And Mycroft will not allow him to break. Not going to happen.

But he would be lying if he said that he had any idea how to comfort little brother. This is no scratched-up knee. This is a loss that has cut straight in the heart.

And probably Sherlock will not accept his comfort.

“Are you hungry?” Wrong question, he decides when Sherlock shakes his head without looking at him.

Little brother has slumped in a chair and not moved since then. His hair is still damp from the rain.

“I’ll prepare some soup,” he informs him, and Sherlock doesn’t react at all, staring at something only he can see.

*****

It happens without warning.

They had sat through a silent dinner, the only noise the slight scraping of spoons on Mycroft's expensive porcelain. At least Sherlock had eaten up his soup but he had not spoken a single word.

Mycroft took his time with the dishes, having no idea what to say to this picture of misery that has become of his lively, reckless little brother. Mycroft had always known that John meant a lot to him but the relationship was obviously even deeper than he had expected. Not a sexual one, though. He is sure that Sherlock is still more or less untouched. There might have been some experimental fumbling with people at uni. The Woman apparently fascinated him and Mycroft had been aware that Sherlock had saved her life even before John gave it away in Sherrinford. But it was a platonic fascination he is sure. But having had sex or not – Sherlock is capable of deep feelings. John had been his friend, his only real friend. Molly’s loss had hit Sherlock but not nearly as hard.

What has he been thinking, taking Sherlock home like a stray cat? He has prepared a room for him and little brother is welcome to stay as long as he wants to (and that he even came home with him without making a lot of fuss speaks volumes about his condition). But what will they do? How is he supposed to comfort Sherlock when Sherlock doesn’t speak? He has closed up like he did in the worst of times – the drug days, when Mycroft feared he would lose him forever.

He can only think of non-verbal comfort. Sherlock would despise any kind of platitudes. He doesn’t need silly phrases. His loss is great and his grief is real.

“Here,” Mycroft says, feeling more out of his depth than he’s done for years. He hands Sherlock a cup with hot chocolate. “You… You always liked this when you were little.” Will it comfort the man of almost forty in any way at all? Isn’t it hopelessly naive to believe that?

Sherlock takes it and stares at it. Mycroft can see his nostrils widen when he takes in the scent of cocoa, honey, sugar and cream. And then thick tears start to roll down his cheeks. He tries to hide them and drinks the truly delicious treat, but he keeps on crying, and Mycroft puts his own mug onto the table and takes Sherlock's out of a shivering hand. He doesn’t say a word but guides Sherlock to the couch and pulls him in, and then Sherlock's barriers are breaking and he starts sobbing against Mycroft's neck, and Mycroft pets and strokes him, feeling his brother’s hot forehead against his skin, murmuring all the silly words he just thought would be of no help at all.

*****

Sherlock stays away so long that Mycroft is worried. But he knows he has to let him be for now. Perhaps he has even gone to bed already. It would not be a bad idea.

His baby brother had cried for at least half an hour. Completely exhausted, he had eventually sagged against him, and they had just been sitting together, curled up with each other. In the end, Sherlock had mumbled something about a shower, and Mycroft had quietly assured him that he would find fresh towels and a robe in the upstairs bathroom and told him to take his time.

Mycroft knows it will take Sherlock a long time to get over this loss. John was too important to him. Occupied a part of his brother that Mycroft had never met himself. John brought the best out of Sherlock – and the worst. Sherlock had killed for him and his wife, forcing Mycroft to negotiate a punishment which seemed like a death sentence but had in fact included a way out should push really come to shove. Sherlock was smart. Mycroft had a lot of faith in him fighting his way out of Eastern Europe, but just in case he wouldn’t have managed, Mycroft would have had his back and gotten him out.

He wonders if Sherlock knows that or if he really believes that Mycroft would have let him die on his mission if Moriarty (or rather: Eurus) had not given him a perfect way out. He knows that Sherlock resents him for a lot of things. So many failures in dealing with him. Mycroft has always thought he was doing his best, but in fact, he knows he can’t only blame Sherlock for their decades-old estrangement. He should have handled some matters differently. Perhaps he had lacked patience. Or understanding. In this Mummy had been right in this devastating conversation after the horrors of Sherrinford: he should have done better. Not with Eurus though but with Sherlock.

But now he might have the chance? He shakes his head about himself. This is him being presumptuous. Sherlock is here because he has forgotten how to be alone. Mycroft is better than nobody. That’s it. Well, at least he prefers him over their parents…

Eventually, he goes upstairs – and finds Sherlock standing in the door of the guest room, dressed in the dark, fluffy robe that Mycroft had provided him with, looking inside with some uncertainty.

“Anything wrong?” Mycroft asks him. “Do you miss anything?”

Sherlock turns to him. His hair is damp from the shower and he has shaved. He bites his lip and gives the impression of a very young man out of his depth. “No. It’s okay. I just…”

He breaks off but Mycroft understands. He is taken aback but he nods at once. “Sure. Come with me.” It touches his heart that Sherlock opts for staying with him. And it also touches something he had managed to fight into the back of his mind long ago. He shakes this thought off at once. Sherlock wants his comfort, and that is a miracle in itself. He will do anything he can to ease his baby brother’s pain. And when Sherlock gives him a grateful and sweetly shy smile, he smiles back and feels a pull at his heart. Sentiment. They are both so sentimental – Sherlock about John and he about Sherlock. But that is really nothing new.

Daring to put his hand on Sherlock's back, he guides him to his own chamber.


	2. Chapter 2

Is there any chance that either of them will get some sleep in this night?

For now, they are lying next to each other, the only noise their quiet breathing and the odd rustling of the bedclothes. He has given Sherlock another pair of his pyjamas – he had put one into the room Sherlock refused to sleep in. Will this be a permanent arrangement? Or will he take the guest room the next night? Or perhaps he will return to empty Baker Street anyway. Mycroft can’t keep him from doing this and he won’t. He has tried to control and belittle Sherlock long enough. But if he wants to stay, no matter in which _[bed]_ room, Mycroft will be happy. Again a memory threatens to come to the surface but Mycroft beats it down in an instant. He is taking care of his little brother, that’s all.

But he doesn’t know what to say to him. He knows Sherlock is inconsolable. He was not even allowed to see John again. It happened fast. The relatively young doctor who survived war and injury had to succumb to this virus that had overrun the world without a chance. What an irony that Mrs Hudson will very likely survive. Sherlock is not allowed to visit her, either, but certainly he will see her before she goes to her sister. It will help him.

But how can Mycroft do that – help him, make it more bearable for him? Certainly not by asking him if he misses John. Or how hard it was to let him go. He can’t comfort him with the prospect of seeing him again on the other side. Neither of them believes that anything _is_ on the other side. And mentioning Sherlock's own death, as inevitable as they both know it is, will not make anything better… There is actually nothing he can say to comfort his brother. All he can offer is being there for him. In a very literal sort of way. He is there, physically. And hopefully Sherlock knows how much he means to him, no matter how difficult their relationship has been ever since Sherlock had been old enough to not unconditionally admiring him anymore. Since he had left home to go to uni. Since he had hardly ever returned to meet his brother and his parents after starting to work for the government.

The sad fact is – he had let Sherlock down. He had never planned to do this but life had happened. Why had Sherlock turned to the drugs? Because he had been bored? Or because… No. He is being horribly presumptuous now. Sherlock must have had his reasons but he had not been one of them. But a small voice in his mind tells him that this is not true, and it saddens him.

He could tell Sherlock that he cares for him, feels for him, but what good would it do? He can’t replace the doctor, who had obviously meant more to his brother than anyone else in all his life.

And then Sherlock turns and basically hurls himself onto him with his full length, burying his face in the crook of his neck. Mycroft freezes in shock for a moment before his hands reach up to cup his brother’s neck and the back of his head. Sherlock doesn’t cry now but he can feel his despair.

He can also feel the warmth of his brother’s body, can smell his clean scent – a mixture of body wash, deodorant and after shave. He reacts to it, hasn’t he secretly seen it coming, and he is terrified to no end. And even more so when he realises that he is not the only one whose body has reacted to this sudden closeness in a most unexpected way.

“Sherlock…” he rasps out and closes his eyes in _[pleasure]_ terror when Sherlock mouths at his neck and chin. For a moment he seriously wonders if this has all been a ruse, meant to, what, drive him crazy? Make him do something Sherlock can throw into his face forever after?

But then he can feel wetness on his skin and sees, even in the pale moonlight that trickles into the room, that Sherlock's eyes are wet with tears. He is seeking comfort, not confrontation. But it’s not all he is looking for. He rubs himself against Mycroft's groin, making their erections grind against each other. “No, brother mine,” he protests. “This is not a good idea.”

What an understatement… What Sherlock is looking for will blow up everything. Especially because Mycroft wants it, wants it so badly, in fact. He is thrown back to a time eighteen years ago when he discovered a drugged-out Sherlock in a nasty house, half naked and almost unconscious when he carried him out. The shame of desiring his little brother took his breath away. Made him feel disgusted by himself whenever the want raised its head again. And he feels like this now, too.

But Sherlock doesn’t care. His hand is rummaging in his trousers and then strong, hot fingers are wrapped around his pulsating flesh. “Don’t make me beg,” he rasps out. He lets himself fall to the side, onto the bed, and pulls Mycroft with him.

And Mycroft sees that he wants to forget. With his help. With his cock. He shakes his head, feeling shaken and disturbed. “You’re going to hate me tomorrow.”

“For someone so smart, you can be exceptionally thick,” Sherlock rumbles beneath him.

And Mycroft finally understands that this has neither been planned to destroy him nor is it a spontaneous action. As much as he had hidden his non-brotherly desires from Sherlock, Sherlock has hidden his own from him. And now, in this time of loneliness and despair, they have come to the surface. Sherlock had deduced his feelings for him someday today. Maybe even before. And now his bare cock is lined up with Sherlock's still clothed one. It’s a sight that shakes him up. It’s so wrong and yet so arousing.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he pleas, knowing it to be pointless. And untrue. Sherlock knows exactly what he is doing. And he doesn’t care about the consequences. Or Mycroft's feelings. Nothing new here…

Sherlock manages to wiggle out of his pyjama pants and underwear without letting him go. “Need you, brother.” There is no doubt about what he means.

“You’re going to regret this tomorrow.” Mycroft has said it almost automatically. He can’t help but stare at Sherlock's naked body beneath him. At the scar on his chest – the souvenir of having been shot by Mary Watson. And of course – at his engorged penis, red and slightly bent against his stomach, snuggling against his own. This is madness. He should just leave. But he can’t even move, and this has nothing to do with Sherlock's right hand holding his neck in an iron grip.

“I won’t,” Sherlock says, his voice sounding impossibly soft. “I’m hurting. But my head is very clear. I need this. Need you. You said you’d always be there for me.”

“I did not mean…” Mycroft breaks off. It is futile. They both know he is craving it. His physical reaction is clear enough.

“Love me, brother,” Sherlock says mercilessly, knowing very well how this word has to affect Mycroft.

This is not about fucking him into oblivion, into forgetting about his loss. They both know that nothing they can do will erase his pain. But it’s the consolation he longs for, and Mycroft might fear that it will mess up their already troubled relationship for good, and perhaps that will happen, but if he refuses to do this, it will not do any good, either. It is not really a choice, is it? Turning Sherlock down will certainly offend him. If he indulges him, there is a chance that something good will come out of it, as improbable as it seems.

And so when Sherlock urges him to bend down, he follows, and he knows he will never forget the moment when their lips meet for the first kiss.

*****

It is like stepping in and out of his own body. Or rather his mind. One moment, he floats on hormones and arousal, on the clean, musky taste on his tongue. The next moment, he sees himself, his face buried in Sherlock's crack, licking him open with the help of two fingers parting his entrance.

It is unspeakable. It is unbelievably hot. His cock is so hard that he fears to come any moment. He is dripping onto the sheets. Sherlock is dripping onto his own stomach. Is Sherlock mentally really prepared for this? For being taken for the very first time, by his own brother? And is Mycroft prepared to take him, to sink into the willing, pulsating flesh that he is now penetrating with his tongue?

He has never done this before – licking anyone intimately. With whom? His previous encounters, so long ago that even the man with the perfect memory has almost completely forgotten about them, had not been in any way like this. He hadn’t _cared_. But this is Sherlock, his Sherlock, and the very last thing he wants is to cause him even more pain. Perhaps Sherlock craves it, longs for it to numb his emotional hurt. But this is something he is not going to give him.

“I’m ready,” Sherlock interrupts his pondering.

“You’ll never be ready.” And isn’t that true in an all-encompassing way for both of them?

But Sherlock shakes his head. “Do it.”

Mycroft closes his eyes for a moment. Then he reaches for the top drawer of his bed stand. He doesn’t indulge in self-pleasuring very often. But he likes it slick when he does. He doesn’t own condoms anymore. What for? And he doesn’t need one now. He has seen recent blood tests from his brother, and he had an HIV test done some time after his last (protected) encounter years ago. They are both safe. At least from this… A condom won’t protect their hearts anyway...

He coats his prick with a generous amount of sticky fluid. He can’t remember having had a hard-on like this before. It looks obscene. Huge and red and stiff enough to smash a hole into a wall. He shakes his head over himself. What a silly thought…

It will hurt, no matter how loose he has licked his brother. Spread him open on his fingers.

“I’ll live,” Sherlock rumbles, having deduced his thoughts.

Mycroft hasn’t missed how Sherlock has been staring at his member. There has been no disgust. No fear either. Just fascination. And want. How has he missed this before? It doesn’t matter now. “Tell me if it gets too much,” he demands, knowing it to be futile. Sherlock so loves to punish himself. And he will, literally, give him the perfect tool. Is he mad? Maybe. But there is no backing away anymore.

He takes a deep breath and positions himself. And then he, slowly, little by little, sinks into his brother’s quivering heat.

*****

The feeling of standing beside himself has multiplied by a thousand. He is completely in the situation but somehow, he is also seeing himself fucking his little brother. Never before has he had such an experience. It feels transcendent. It feels insane. And arousing beyond words. His groin is on fire. His brain is frozen. It is ridiculous. It is wonderful.

He has started slow. But very unsurprisingly, Sherlock's legs have been slung around his waist, urging him on. In fact, Sherlock has him in an even tighter grip than before, with arms and legs. He only gives him enough freedom to pound into him.

Sherlock's breath is hot against his face. There are no more tears. There are quiet gasps and moans but no words. And what is there to say anyway?

Mycroft's mind palace has always been divided in two parts. One belongs to his work. He needs giant capacities to memorize all the data that is needed to protect the kingdom. Or try at least, given that the PM is one to divide and destabilize other than unite and heal. In fact, he is a dangerous idiot, and not even Mycroft can contain him. The other part is for Sherlock, of course. Sherlock might have forgotten basically everything about his childhood but Mycroft remembers it all. Remembers the first time he had taken his brother’s tiny hand, seeing the baby smile, these already then incredible eyes beaming at him. Remembers the little boy that loved to play pirate. The boy he had watched climbing trees and taught how to ride a bicycle. And how to build this mind palace when he got older.

One room has always been locked. The room for Sherlock, the desirable male, not the brother. But now this door is wide open and being filled with every gasp, every scent, every drop of Sherlock's sweat touching Mycroft's skin. How smooth the skin of his temple is when Mycroft's lips brush over it. And how it feels to kiss his lips.

It’s the kisses that got him. That will never let him go again. Sex, the mechanical in-and-out, can be a tool, a means to accomplish something, even a distraction from the grief for a very good friend. But the kisses belong to them. They mean something. It’s the kisses that convince him that Sherlock really wants this. May have wanted it for a long time. This might as well have never happened without Sherlock losing John. But that’s not important now. And if Sherlock wants this to happen only this one time, Mycroft will never urge him to repeat it. And he will never forget this night.

“Faster,” Sherlock whispers now, his grip around him increasing even more, and Mycroft nods and makes his hips pump faster, and deeper, the squelching noises of their coupling echoing from the walls.

Sherlock is losing his rather calm demeanour now. Mycroft is pushing his buttons with his more forceful strokes, and his cock, trapped between them, gets stimulated by Mycroft's movements as well. Clinging to him, his hair wet with sweat, Sherlock comes apart first, filling the almost non-existent gap between their bodies with his release.

Mycroft follows him only seconds later when his brother’s _[lover’s?]_ strong inner muscles contract around his still stroking prick. He stills and spills deep inside him, biting his lip so hard that he can taste blood. He has never been exactly what they call a screamer, but this time it would have felt exceptionally wrong to cry out. He briefly wonders if controlling himself in every situation is really such a good thing…

Refraining from collapsing onto his panting brother, he disentangles from him and lies down next to him, spooning him from behind. He can feel the wetness dribbling out of his brother’s entrance. How is Sherlock feeling now? Does he already have regrets? Has the grief hit him again?

Sherlock snuggles backwards into his embrace. His hand finds Mycroft's, and he intertwines their fingers. It is a weird feeling. But a nice one.

For a long time, neither of them speaks. Then Mycroft surprises himself with mumbling, “Now I know why you didn’t want to go to Mummy and Father.”

Sherlock turns to him with a comical expression – and then he grins. “You are nasty.”

“Apologies.” What has gotten into him – making jokes in such a situation?

But Sherlock is not offended. In fact he relaxes in his arms. “No, don't. It was funny. Didn't think I would smile tonight.” He bends his neck again to kiss Mycroft's cheek. “Thank you. And I know you thought it’s wrong. But it’s not.”

Mycroft kisses his hair. “I can’t make you forget by doing this.”

“No. It’s not how it works.” Sherlock lets him go to turn around in his grip. “And it’s not what it was about.”

“As long as it didn’t make you feel bad…”

“Not at all.” Sherlock seems to want to say more but he doesn’t. He probably can’t.

But Mycroft can see it in his eyes. He sees affection and openness. Sherlock's face says what his voice cannot. That he had thought about this for a long time. That he feels something for him. Maybe even a lot. “Good,” Mycroft says softly. “If you like to… do more… also in other ways… I am open for it.” His clumsiness offends himself but he can see only relief in Sherlock's face.

“That would be… very good. I… There will be bad times. Not because of you,” Sherlock hurries to add.

“I know, little brother. I’ll be there for you. In all times.”

And when Sherlock smiles, he feels as if a grip around his heart had loosened up, and he kisses his lips, and all he feels is relief and hope. And love.

He will take care of his brother. Whatever he needs.

°°° Fin °°°


End file.
